O My beloveds, you are the song in My heart. I sing My praises to you. By your existence on Earth, you uphold the Earth. It is you who revolves the world around the Sun. It is you who makes it possible for the Sun to shed its light on the world. You create and recreate the world in every moment. You spin the tales and you weave the cloth that tie the Universe together. You have a spinning wheel and a loom, and you are a maker and teller of tales. You weave them in and out. All stories are handed down. There is an infinite string of stories that are told and songs that are sung, and you sing some, and you hear all whether you know it or not or understand or not.

You are the singer of the Universe. Yours is the throat from which song comes. You mean to follow My notes, and yet notes spring from the back of your throat, and yet you don't know from where they come. You sing a song of sixpence, and do not know what you mean. You may not hear your own notes. You think they come from somewhere else.

You sing from the treetops, and you sing from a solitary cave. You sing from on high, and you spread your wings wide, and you take off, and you soar, and you know not that you are soaring. You may even think you stay in one place, and that not even your heart beats. And yet your heart beats, and your heart beats love, and you feel the beat of My heart, and you know the name of the beat of My heart is love, and you call it by name.

There is a lot of misconstruing and misunderstanding in the world. From misunderstanding, trouble and heartache come. From innocent love, questions arise. You ask, "What is meant by that?" And you see something amiss. You see ulterior motives. Meanwhile, everyone is a bird singing in a tree, and yet birds of the trees do not misunderstand the tunes the other birds sing. And yet, in human speech, misunderstanding abounds, one misunderstanding after another tumbling down like Jack and Jill with a pail of water.

Sometimes you say one thing, and you mean something else altogether. Sometimes other words come out, and you don't even know what you mean.

Even those who speak the same language speak differently. There are slips of the tongue and slips of the heart, and you don't know what you've said let alone what you mean, and so someone once near you alights on a different tree and sings his or her own song of the moment, and it is a plaint.

Sing a simple note, beloveds. Sing love, and may it be understood. May ears hear and eyes see, and you come to know that all is well with the world regardless of whatever songs you have sung and words you have spoken and interruptions that have broken your song.

You are on a course of love, and you are learning to love more and more. You have to learn it only because you have forgotten it. You thought love was a little personal thing, often taken amiss, and now you learn that love is the Song of the Universe, and you are learning how to sing it, and how beautiful is the song you sing. Here, I teach it to you now.